


The Story of Tonight

by EZChase



Category: Glee, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Actual Violence, Bullying, Characters and relationships added as I go, Child Abuse, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Graphic Description, Help, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, It will come tho, M/M, Mindpalace!John, Mindpalace!Kurt, Rating May Change, Sexual Abuse, Sherlock does more art than science, Sherlock doesn't live at 221B Baker Street yet, Sherlock is a mechanic, Skank Kurt Hummel, Tagging as I go, Tags May Change, Threats of Violence, Why Did I Write This?, bad boy Sherlock, graphic description of rape, i have my reasons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-04-06 20:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19070392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EZChase/pseuds/EZChase
Summary: The BBC Sherlock and Glee crossover that literally no one but my brain asked for.Resident social outcast, Sherlock Holmes, goes to school in Lima, Ohio, and has had to lead a rather rough life. He'll do anything to make a quick buck. Enter new kid and bad-boy Kurt Hummel who's just trying to survive his last two years of high school by keeping a low profile. He'll do anything to fly under the radar. Sherlock is keeping a fuck-ton of secrets and Kurt just wants to escape to New York City in order to achieve his dreams of becoming a Broadway star. Neither of them was looking for love or friendship.Will they be able to help each other through their trials and tribulations? Will they be able to navigate the many fights, parties, and psychological issues that make up the teen experience? Or will they end up hurting each other beyond repair?Only one way to find out.Keep reading. I dare you. 😉😘(Loosely following season two and on of Glee--right about the time that Kurt left for Dalton Academy in the canon, is about the time my Kurt shows up to McKinley).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't like this pairing, then please don't read it. This was written for fun and I'm not looking for any hate.

“Watch where you’re going, Fairy!”

A group of football players laughed as he was slammed up against the locker he’d just shut, having been digging around inside for a pen. The force of the shoulder check, and his own slight frame, had him sliding down the lockers until he sat on the hard ground, trying to catch his breath. One of the football players kicked him in the shin as the group slowly walked away, each of them spitting more unoriginal insults as they passed by.

Sherlock sighed as he pulled himself up and away from the unforgiving metal. It was always the same unimaginative slurs and relentless bodily harm. The same idiots who did it too. But he was used to it by now. It was practically a daily routine. Lucky for him, he wasn’t as low on the food chain as the glee kids, so he was spared the slushy facials.

Sometimes…sometimes when he was at his most venerable, he would let himself wonder why they treated him like a rejected pariah.

He wasn’t even gay.

Or so he told everyone who believed him to be so.

In his heart of hearts, Sherlock knew that he didn’t really care about the gender, or lack thereof, in combination with a potential partner. No, Sherlock was attracted to intelligence, more than anything else.

But in a small town such as Lima, Ohio, there wasn’t much intelligence to go around. He was “odd” because he chose to cultivate his own intelligence, so he was seen as different, as queer, and thus, as gay. Sherlock knew he could blend in, if he tried hard enough—he could be a master of disguise if the fancy took him—but he didn’t care enough about the drove of brainless monkeys who ran the school to put forth the effort. Besides, if he hung around the cattle that tried to pass as his peers, he just knew his IQ would lower like a contact disease.

The warning bell rang just as he was contemplating whether or not he was willing to risk his darkening mood by attending AP Lit. He rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like the teacher would tell him anything he didn’t already know, since he’d read ahead.

It was a relatively nice day out, if a bit too windy, when Sherlock eased himself out the back door of the school. A perfect kind of day. The kind of day John would’ve loved to spend in the woods teaching Sherlock how to shoot the pistol he’d stolen from his father’s safe and laugh as they tried to catch the bunnies that hopped past the little clearing they’d made into their home away from home.

A pang of sadness tore through his chest and he pushed it down, afraid that if he examined it too closely, he’d be stuck in his depression for another month before the call of the high was too much for him to fight. He’d promised John he’d get clean. And he’d stay clean for his best friend. That was all he had left.  

He grimaced as he found a tree out past the football field and settled in to read, wishing the day would be over, even though it had yet to start.

He was only a few pages deep when he heard someone approach, but he refused to look up until he was finished with the paragraph.

“Hey, beat it. I want to sit there,” snarled a high-pitched voice. Sherlock could tell the person in question was trying their best to make themselves sound more intimidating than they actually were.

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped as he snapped his book closed. Could he not have just one moment of peace before he had to deal with high school drama?

He looked up at the boy standing in front of him, surprised that such a melodic voice had come from someone who looked like a cross between a hipster and a greaser who took pride in his appearance. The boy was dressed in a jean jacket over a tight hoodie, his long legs encased in tight black jeans that left nothing to the imagination and which ended in scuffed combat boots that hung unlaced at the top. His hair was styled into a slick undercut, with some of his bangs dyed a bright blue which hung over the prettiest blue eyes Sherlock had only ever seen once before, in John.

Sherlock’s gaze was drawn to those startling baby blues, to the soft looking skin of the boy’s cheeks, to the cigarette held between the boy’s red lips. Sherlock forced himself to take in the rest of the boy too. The way his shoulders stretched the stitching of his jacket, the way the jacket wasn’t quite long enough to be a man’s, which was further evidenced by the buttons being on the wrong side. The faded collar had lost the leather that had once held it stiff, the tears in the lining spoke of years of ware, and the fraying of the sleeves gave away how old the jacket really was. While the combat boots the kid wore were heavily scuffed as if to look old, the aglets were still relatively new, speaking to how new the boots were. The kid worse multiple bracelets on both of his wrists, but he occasionally scratched at them, indicating that he usually kept his wrists bare. And those dyed bangs were too bright to have been done more than two days ago.

Sherlock smirked when he found the information he needed.

He stretched, his back making a satisfying pop, as he stood at a languid pace. To his delight, he was taller than the other boy. Much taller.

The new kid let out a large cloud of smoke, exhaling it into Sherlock’s face and raising his pierced eyebrow in challenge. As if he could grab back his pride at being shorter by being rougher. Meaner.

He stepped closer and lowered his voice as he said, “get outta the way, beanpole.”

“How long has your mother been dead. One, maybe two years? And you’re still wearing her jean jacket?”

There were very few things that could surprise Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, but the wild-haired, willowy student’s deep voice was one of them. And so was the kid’s comment, which was a slap to the face.

“The hell you say to me?” Kurt snapped, reaching up and grabbing the front of Sherlock’s white button-down in an iron grip.

Sherlock saw anger and hurt and pain flash in his blue eyes before Kurt’s mouth thinned out into a hard line. Kurt would fight him if he had to, though given the reluctance Sherlock could see spasming in the boy’s other fist, he figured Kurt wasn’t a natural born fighter.

Once upon a time, Sherlock had been just like that, quick to confront but reluctant to throw the first punch. But that was a long time ago.

“You clearly know what I said, judging by the grip you have on my shirt.” Sherlock looked Kurt over again and watched as he noticed. Kurt smirked and it was just as eye-catching as everything else about his pixie-like features. “Three schools in three years? And for so many fights,” Sherlock said, grinning. He kept his posture relaxed as he looked down into those crystalline blue eyes. “Such a naughty boy,” he finished as he plucked the cigarette from Kurt’s mouth and brought it to his own lips, just because he could. Because he knew it would throw him off.

For half a second Kurt was taken aback by the taller man, unsure as to how he could be read so easily by a stranger who’d only just met him. But the moment of shock passed, making room for his anger to take hold.

“Naughty boy? The hell is wrong with you?” Kurt growled though Sherlock didn’t miss how he licked his lips as he watched Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bob when he exhaled smoke to the side.

Instead of answering Sherlock took another drag of the menthol cigarette, his lungs feeling as if they were simultaneously burning and filling with ice.

“You know, if you really want your dad to trust you again, you might want to stop pretending to be someone you’re not,” he said, blowing the smoke of the second exhale into Kurt’s face, just to see what he’d do. He then eased his hand into the pocket of Kurt’s jean jacket, gripping the cigarette box, lighter, and wallet he found there. Kurt was too busy scowling and pushing Sherlock into the bark of the tree to notice. “They don’t take kindly to pretenders around here.”

“Listen, kid. You don't know me or my life,” Kurt started, his grip tightening on Sherlock’s shirt as he slammed Sherlock against the tree they’d been fighting over, “but, I'm not pretending to be anything other than what you see in front of you. And if you don’t stop being weird as shit and sayin’ shit about my life, I’ll punch you right in your pretty face.”

Kurt wasn’t bothered by the smoke in his face, but it was just distracting enough, and so was Sherlock's plump lips stretched around the filter of  _his_  cigarette, that he failed to notice Sherlock pulling his new treasures into the pocket of his wool pea coat.

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself,” Sherlock said, gently pulling Kurt’s hand from his shirt. “Try to stay out of trouble, if you can.” Sherlock took one last drag of the stolen cigarette and placed it back into Kurt’s mouth, which hung open in shock.

Without preamble, Sherlock stowed his book in his back pocket and walked away; he could feel the boy’s eyes watching him as he left, glued to the back of his black pea coat.

He was just beginning to enjoy the rush the nicotine brought to his system when Kurt shouted, “you’re too damn weird!”

Kurt waited until the strange student had walked away before nestling himself into the nook of the tree. He leaned his head back. The sharp bark dug into his spine, giving him some semblance of relief in order for him to collect his thoughts.

His father had wanted to drop him off at school that morning, but Kurt had somehow convinced him that he’d actually go, as long as Burt refused to check up on him. Burt’s weary and untrusting gaze had haunted him the whole ride to school, enough that, when he’d walked into the building, the first thing he’d done was head straight to the guidance counselor for his schedule. He could at least try to be a facsimile of the uptight student he’d once been. For his dad’s sake. However, after he’d gotten the schedule, well, he’d really been jonesing for a smoke due to first day jitters and all.

He’d only intended to get some air but had found himself walking out past the football field, willing to blame getting lost on why he’d missed his first few classes.

He didn’t know what to think of the tall student with the button-down shirt, dark jeans, and biker boots. The guy himself looked like a loner bad-boy, all mysterious with the pea coat, dark, wild hair, and the pale as alabaster skin. But there was too much in the depth of those eyes that seemed to change color at every moment, from green to blue to silver to brown, for Kurt to believe that was all there was too him. Plus, Kurt wasn't used to people standing up to him or, at the very least, calling his bluff. He didn't know if he hated or liked that the other student had the balls to call him out on his bullshit. And the sassy comments, delivered so dry that Kurt could almost believe they’d been talking about the weather, cut him to the core.

Kurt was used to people assuming he was an orphan, someone tossed into the cruel world and forced to care for himself, but that wasn't true. Kurt had deeply loved, and been loved by, his parents, even after coming out as gay to them. His mother had held him close and whispered loving things as Burt had just nodded and rubbed his shoulder. Things had been good.

But his mother had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and there’d been nothing any of them could do. She’d passed just a year before, causing Kurt to spiral into a deep depression as he’d been very close to his mother who’d been the only person to so readily understand his desire for art and fashion, as she’d been a dressmaker and small-town singer. As a result of Kurt isolating himself, his relationship with his dad faltered.

Kurt knocked his head back against the tree, trying to force his thoughts back to more pleasant things. The weird kid with the pretty eyes had hit a nerve, easily guessing how to tear Kurt down.

But Kurt couldn't accept being weaker than someone. Not again. 

After his mother had passed, Kurt’s bullies saw his tears and openly expressed emotions and had doubled their efforts to torment him. If you asked any of the witnesses of Kurt’s expulsion from Carmel High School, they would tell you that Kurt had gone crazy, that he’d just snapped one day and lost all control. Which was sort of true, but it wasn’t the whole story. Kurt had had enough of the relentless comments about his sexuality, his ladylike looks and the way he dressed, about how poor his father was, compared to everyone else at the private school, and a comment about his mother had set him over the edge. He’d fought back his main tormenter and won, in the end. But it had cost him the good school his mother had picked out for him.

Then Blaine...well. He wouldn't think about that. 

So when his father had a heart attack while he was away at boarding school, he had purposefully gotten himself expelled so he could stay home and take care of Burt. After that, Kurt had been trying really hard to be a good kid for his dad, who had enough to worry about. And the only school left he could go to was McKinley.

So, Kurt had changed. Cut his long hair, swapped his Alexander McQueen’s for leather and jeans, got a couple of tattoos, and pierced his skin. He created a whole new persona, one that made him seem dangerous and struck fear into anyone who wanted to mess with him. He knew that fear would keep him safe, because if they feared him, they wouldn’t touch him. It was pretty easy to transition into a surly punk, since that was how he felt. It was easy to pick up smoking and walking around like he had a chip on his shoulder. It was easy to pick up the fighting too, the constant anger at the world for his current circumstances helped. And he was an actor, so he was good at pretending he was someone completely different.

But he didn’t think he’d be called on it so soon.

Kurt sighed.

From the breast pocket of his jacket, he pulled out the already battered piece of paper that made up his schedule.

“AP classes. Great,” he cursed to himself, annoyed that he would have to work to keep up now. Normally he would be in the normal classes, passing easily because he was smarter than the average person and actually did his work. But AP classes weren't as easy for him, mostly because he had difficulty paying attention. “Looks like AP Chem is next. What joy.”

Kurt fumbled in his jacket pocket to grab his pack of cigarettes and felt nothing but the coarse fabric of his coat. He ripped his jacket off and searched it to no avail.

“That fucker took my wallet,” Kurt shouted, caring less for his cigs and lighter than for the precious cargo in his wallet.

With a self-satisfied smile, Sherlock made his way towards the football field. He pulled out the lighter and pack of cigarettes he’d stolen, lit up, then examined the new kid’s wallet. A much younger looking Kurt E. Hummel stared up at him from the tiny square of the new kid’s driver’s license. In the picture Kurt looked much happier than he did now, his hair was undyed, he’d yet to lose the baby fat in his cheeks, and he was wearing a soft looking sweater. He looked almost adorable in a way Sherlock wasn’t expecting.

Sherlock was too busy examining the photograph, and then the rest of the black leather wallet (some cash, a debit card to one Burt Hummel, a few crumpled gas receipts, a froyo voucher—how utterly  _boring—_ and a picture of what could only be a fourteen-year-old Kurt with his mother, _interesting_ ) to see the jocks he’d just walked past. That was why it took him a moment of startled surprise to turn around after something hard hit him in the back of the head.

He turned just in time to see a football be scooped up by Karofsky who high-fived Phillip Anderson, one of the most idiotic players on the football team. Without a thought, Sherlock flicked his lit cigarette at Anderson’s head, smiling when he yelped in pain. He then jerked the football out of Karofsky’s shocked arms, grabbed the pen that had been nestled between his ear and his head, and stabbed down. Hard.

The ball deflated immediately.

His victory was short-lived when he looked up to see Karofsky, Anderson, and Azimio stomping towards him, anger evident in their set shoulders and shouts of outrage.

Anderson grabbed him by the front of his shirt, slamming him against the brick wall of the football stadium’s concession stand, while Karofsky and Azimio held his arms.

“Big mistake, Holmes,” Anderson said, his rancid breath fanning across Sherlock’s face.

The wind was knocked out of Sherlock for a few seconds before he recovered enough to spit in Anderson’s eye.

“Maybe try a tic-tac after blowing your buddies, Anderson,” Sherlock replied.

With the idiot distracted, he kicked out at Karofsky’s feet, catching the ungraceful bully off-guard and sending him crashing to the ground. Azimio took the opportunity to punch him in the face, but Sherlock turned his head at the last minute so that the fist glanced off his cheek. Sherlock took the moment of reprieve to punch Azimio right in the solar plexus. He might have been tall and lean, but his fist packed quite the punch. When Azimio went down, he high tailed it away, not willing to be caught again by those indolent goons.

By the time he made it inside the building, it was almost time for AP Chem, so he went to the room early and found his usual seat in the back of the classroom. Most people at the school were smart enough to stay away from him, because they knew he could tell their life stories by only a glance. He wasn’t above making money out of it either—he’d willingly sold his information before, when cash was tough, and had provided evidence even dullards couldn’t question. Most of the students in the school feared him for his genius, and when that failed, for his skills at fighting. The jocks of McKinley, however, weren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. They thought they could intimidate him with brute force. But for someone like Sherlock, someone who saw rules as being made purposefully to be broken, that just made him work harder to do what they didn’t want him to do. If that meant taking a few beatings, well, he just made sure to give as good as he got.

Sherlock didn’t care about many things. He didn’t see the point in making friends when they would insist on lying to him, knowing he could tell. He didn’t see the point in going to high school when he knew everything there was to know in his chosen interests like Chemistry, Music, and Art. He also didn’t give a damn what others thought of him, so long as the mouth breathers kept at least fifteen feet away in any direction.

He watched his so-called “peers” trickle into class as he contemplated how his life could get any worse. And then it did. Because he recognized that dark jean jacket and those barely laced combat boots.

Sighing, he looked down, hoping Kurt would either not see him or not want to be around him after talking to him the way he had and stealing his shit. As Lady Luck would have it, he was not on the good list today, because the other boy plopped down in the seat next to him.

Kurt hoped that by sitting next to Sherlock and getting under his skin, he’d annoy him enough to get his wallet back. He ignored the looks he received from the rest of the students for daring to sit next to McKinley’s resident anarchist and social outcast.

Sherlock just hoped the kid would let him work in peace.

“Okay kids,” a blonde lady said as she walked in. “I’m Holly Holiday, your substitute teacher. I have a hangover, and therefore, don’t care if the school blew up. Go do…things.”

With that, she sat at the teacher’s desk and proceeded to fall asleep.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled his book out to finish it. He’d rather be messing about with the chemicals, but after the accident his freshman year where he overestimated the amount of magnesium—well, they’ve had the chemical closet locked ever since. Their usual teacher, Ms. Hooper, was the only person who had a key. And he’d rather die than try and make colorful bubbles like the rest of the class set about doing, as was required of them. It was so elementary.

“You don’t wanna play with the pretty bubbles, big guy?” Kurt asked as he leaned closer to Sherlock with the intention of making Sherlock uncomfortable with the close contact. “They would look so pretty with your weird-ass, colorless eyes.”

Sherlock rolled said eyes and sighed in annoyance but stayed otherwise silent. He could feel the other boy’s breath ghosting over his skin. He could smell the other boy’s spicy cologne. It was rather distracting, and he could feel the sensory overload in his mind starting. In order to combat what was quickly becoming a meltdown, Sherlock began to shove all of the pieces of information he observed about Kurt into a padlocked box in a corner of his mind.

Slowly Sherlock angled his body away from Kurt, hoping that he could just ignore him and finish his book, which only had three pages left. But Kurt followed, pressing his knees into Sherlock’s boney thigh, a smirk resting on his lips at the evidence that he’d gotten to him.

Sherlock flipped the page, cursing the fact that he wasn’t retaining any of the information that his eyes picked up. He could feel Kurt’s grin as he leaned further towards Sherlock, resting his arm on Sherlock’s shoulder so he could look at the book Sherlock was desperately trying to read.

“Mm, you’re almost done reading. I won't spoil the ending for you then,” Kurt said, his voice teasing. Much how John used to sound when he knew he’d pushed all of Sherlock’s buttons.

Sherlock had had enough.

He shut his book and glanced at Kurt, his eyes burning with the ferocity of his glare.

“Excuse me,” he said as he shoved his book in is messenger bag and left the room. No one saying a word to make him stay.

Kurt laughed in the face of his victory. After waiting only a few seconds, Kurt gathered his things and followed the boy into the hall, all the way to his locker.

“Not such a big shot now, are you? I know I'm hot, but don't feel too flustered, darling,” Kurt said as he stepped behind Sherlock who’d shoved his things into the locker, invading his space once again.

“Oh, for the love of—for the last time. I’m not gay!” Sherlock whirled around to confront Kurt, his eyes flashing dangerously. “And for someone who seems not to care what others think, why the hell do you keep following me?”

“You have my fuckin’ wallet, you ass,” Kurt said, slamming his fists on either side of Sherlock’s head, effectively caging him in. Even though he was shorter, he made good use of Sherlock leaning away to make himself look taller. “I’m no idiot. I’d realized you’d pickpocketed it a minute after you left.” Kurt’s eyes were ice cold as he glared up at Sherlock. “And what the hell’s wrong with being gay? You a fuckin’ homophobe?” His question was angry as he leaned his face towards Sherlock, and Sherlock had no doubt that Kurt would punch him, given a wrong answer. “Answer me, asshole.”

“Of course not. Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said fighting the urge to duck under Kurt’s arms or press himself further into the locker. He passed Kurt’s wallet back to the bad boy’s jacket pocket as he said, “I’m just sick of everyone assuming things about me and treating me like I’m crap because of it.”

Sherlock sighed, running his hand through his hair.

“Look Kurt, I’m just gonna say this once. If you ever basically call me a prejudiced asshole again, your biggest worry won’t be the jocks of this school.”

Kurt sighed as well and released his hold on the lockers behind Sherlock. Instead, he casually leaned beside Sherlock, keeping his arms crossed over his chest like a shield.

“I'm not afraid of you, man. Just because you're a super genius giant—” he started, but he didn’t want to seem like he was joking. “I could easily kick your ass, so don't threaten me.”

Seeing the threat and challenge for what it is, Sherlock asked, “oh really? Would you like to try?” as a smirk ticked up the left side of his lips.

Kurt laughed and rolled his eyes, grinning up at Sherlock. He could spend all day on their banter.

“I'm not getting kicked out when I just got here, so don’t test me,” Kurt warned, his blue eyes twinkling with mischievousness. “I'll find you when I need to let off some steam.”

“Mm, see that you do,” Sherlock said as he turned to leave. Over his shoulder, he called “the name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 210 Barber Street.”

Sherlock smiled to himself. A real smile. Kurt was  _interesting_.

Sherlock had thought Kurt would hit him right then, but the other boy had backed down instead. He was also astonished by his own continued flirtations with the new kid. At first, it had been a ploy to make him uncomfortable, but then he didn’t know why he’d left that parting shot. He wasn’t the kind of person who said flirtatious things like that, and usually, he wasn’t the kind of person who picked up that he was being flirted with. But with Kurt, it was just so easy.

“Flirty. I like it,” Kurt called. “My name’s Kurt Hummel.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, waiting for that to sink into Kurt’s brain.

Kurt paused for a second, trying to figure out how Sherlock knew his name already, then shouted, “Gimme back my wallet, you dick!”

“Check your pockets,” Sherlock called back, as he turned the corner. “And thanks for the smokes!”

“Fuckin’ jerk,” Kurt mumbled, but his grin didn’t leave his face for the rest of the day.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock spent the next few days keeping his distance from Kurt. Instead, he spent the time trying to figure him out. Sherlock was intrigued by Kurt’s angry façade and wanted to understand more about what he was like after the combat boots, jeans, and leather was stripped away. Sherlock kept tabs on the new kid and spoke to him a bit, but the conversation was stilted, because he refused to interact with him like they had on day one, afraid he’d mess up the data he was collecting. Sherlock knew the school and the surrounding town like the back of his hand, so it wasn’t hard for him to duck into hallways and alcoves, if Kurt came within twenty feet of him, in order to observe the way Kurt acted when he wasn’t aware people were watching. Sherlock reasoned it to himself that Kurt would be busy trying to get used to the new school and how things were run when the teachers weren’t watching which, at McKinley, was nearly all the time, so he wouldn’t really notice or care.

Kurt was fine with the weird game of chicken-sidestepping they’d developed. He wasn’t inclined to go past the unspoken limits Sherlock had implemented between them, aware of the fact that Sherlock seemed to view him as some sort of science experiment. He wasn’t sure he even wanted to be friends with someone who started developing friendships with calculation and distance. But he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued by Sherlock’s uncanny ability to read information off people like some sort of psychic. He was caught off guard by the detached way Sherlock presented himself despite admitting he was being bullied. Kurt also couldn’t deny his attraction to Sherlock, as he always fell for guys who were dark, mysterious, and had enough baggage to be detained by TSA. Nothing about Sherlock added up, and Kurt hated not understanding things. However, Sherlock seemed to be the only person willing to talk to him—he got kicked out of his French class for smoking, officially labeling him a delinquent—that he decided to break the stalemate three days later.

Sherlock glanced up as Kurt approached him, the final bell ringing loud overhead. He slammed his locker shut just as Kurt leaned next to him, smirking at the confused look on Sherlock’s narrow face.

“Come to test your mettle then, have you?” he asked, leaning against his own locker.

“Nah, not today,” Kurt answered as he played with the lollipop he’d been sucking on for the last ten minutes, trying to cut back on the number of cigarettes he smoked. “Why? You seriously lookin’ for a fight?”

Sherlock stepped closer to Kurt, noticing the dilation of his pupils and the quickening of his breath.

“Nah, not today,” Sherlock answered with a grin. He stepped away from Kurt and grabbed his bag from the ground. “I don’t have to be home for an hour. Would you like to come with me?” Kurt narrowed his eyes and Sherlock shrugged. “The offer expires in ten seconds.”

“Oh? You want to be alone with me?” Kurt asked, his lips forming a smirk as he ran his fingers over Sherlock's exposed forearm. “I didn't know you moved so quickly. But, sure, I'll go with you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, snatching his arm away from Kurt who’d found a scar on Sherlock’s pale skin that looked like a cigarette had been put out on it, he’d been rubbing at it with his thumb. 

“Follow me.”

Without another word, Sherlock walked out of the school building to the student parking lot, trusting Kurt to follow. They approached a slightly rusted muscle car that sat in a convenient parking spot near the front of the school. Sherlock unlocked the front driver’s door and dumped his bag in the backseat, then slid into the driver’s side in one fluid motion. It had become as easy as breathing since John—well.

Seeing Kurt freeze up, Sherlock leaned over and opened the passenger door.

“Are you going to get in?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the way Kurt glanced at the body of his car in apprehension.

“Wouldn’t you rather take my bike?” Kurt asked, jutting his chin out towards the other side of the parking lot where a black street motorcycle glinted in the afternoon sunlight.

“A car’s better for what I have in mind.” Sherlock patted the leather seat. “Would you relax? I’ve fixed everything in it, I just haven’t given him a buff or paint job yet. But don’t worry, he’s one hundred percent, purely working ’69 Chevelle.”

Kurt took a deep breath and chewed the last of his lollipop, before sliding into the front seat and tossing his own bag in the back.

“Mind if I smoke in here?” he asked as he tossed the stick into his pocket, grabbed his new pack of cigarettes, and shook them to get Sherlock's attention.

“Please do,” Sherlock said turning over the ignition. The car roared to life almost shaking the metal frame as Sherlock pulled out of the parking lot.

It was quiet while Kurt taped out one of his cigarettes and lit up, exhaling in relief.

After a beat of silence, Kurt asked, “you fixed the car up? By yourself?”

Sherlock shrugged, guiding the car around the slow minivan in front of them.

“Me and a—a friend started to fix it up together. But he—but eventually I had to fix it myself. Had to teach myself everything too, reading manuals and watching YouTube videos and shit,” Sherlock replied, forcing down the bile in his mouth at the thought of exposing too much of his past, of revisiting it all again.

“It sounds pretty good,” Kurt said, nodding towards the engine as he sucked in a lungful of smoke.

“Thanks,” Sherlock replied as he flicked his turn signal on and turned them down a street Kurt wasn’t familiar with. The car made a clicking sound. Listening for the sound again, Kurt exhaled the smoke, this time being sure to blow it away from Sherlock and out the cracked window.

When the car made the same sound Kurt said, “you ridin’ the breaks?”

“Only on the turn, because I was going so fast,” Sherlock replied defensively. “I can drive just fine. Thanks.”

Kurt looked over at the expert ways Sherlock was switching gears like it was second nature to him. When Sherlock caught him looking, Kurt winked and said, “oh I bet you can, hot stuff. Cool your jets. It just sounds like your brake pads are a bit loose.” 

“You know cars?” Sherlock asked, stealing Kurt’s cigarette and taking a drag without even looking.

“Fuck you. Get your own goddamned cigs. That shit’s expensive,” Kurt replied as he ripped the stick from Sherlock’s fingers, shoving it back into his mouth with a huff.

Sherlock grinned, “so?”

“So what?” Kurt asked, glaring at him with a scowl.

“So, how do you know about cars?”

“Don’t you already know?”

“Sure,” Sherlock said, guiding the car around another turn and then straightening it out. He glanced at Kurt’s fingernails, where he saw a bit of grease the new kid had yet to clean out. “But I want to hear it from you.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “My dad runs an auto-shop.”

“And you help him out?”

“I work there part-time after school. My ‘punishment’ for gettin’ in so many fights. Thinks it’ll keep me outta trouble.”

“Does it work?” Sherlock asked, curious as to what Kurt’s answer would be.

“I’m here with you when I should be at work. What d’you think, genius?” Kurt asked as he lit another cigarette.

Sherlock’s answer was to grin out his window as Kurt blew smoke at him just to be an ass.

Sherlock drove for ten minutes like that, breathing in the sweet smoke he hadn’t been able to afford in what seemed like forever. At the eleven minute mark, Kurt started to fidget. Sherlock’s laugh was soundless, the kind that, if you weren’t looking, you’d miss.

“Don’t worry. I’m not taking you out to an abandoned cornfield to kill you,” Sherlock said as he parallel parked. “We’re here.”

“Here” was a dusty looking row of buildings, several streets over from the town center. There was a tattoo parlor, a music shop, a bar, and a Hair Cuttery that looked like it’d seen better days. Sherlock got out and started walking towards the music store.

He stopped and opened Kurt’s door when he didn’t follow suit.

“Do I really look like the kind of person to kill in broad daylight?” Sherlock asked as Kurt got out.

“Do I really look like the kind of person to take orders from someone?” Kurt fired back. He followed the taller boy inside anyway.

The cashier at the counter looked up from the papers he was reading when the door chimed as they entered. His face morphed from a glare to a smile as he noticed Sherlock.

“Sherlock! Good to see you!” he greeted brightly as he stepped from behind the counter and walked up to the two students.

“Angelo,” Sherlock said, allowing himself to be pulled into a hug by the giant of a man with the Italian accent. “Is she here?”

Angelo got serious.

“Ah, yes. In the back.”

He led them to the back of the store where a little girl sat, fiddling with the strings of a child violin.

“You know what to do Sherlock. Same pay as usual,” Angelo said. Then he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to the boy behind him. “And anything else is on the house for you and your date!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the implication but didn’t even try correct Angelo. He knew from personal experience that it was nigh on impossible to dissuade the older man when he got an idea stuck in his head.

“You may want to sit down Kurt. This will take a while,” Sherlock said, motioning to the rickety stool that sat off to the side by a wall of vintage posters. Then Sherlock grabbed the adult violin in the corner and approached the girl. “Now Sophie, do you remember where we left off last time?”

Annoyed that he’d followed Sherlock only to have to watch a violin practice, Kurt sat with a huff. He pulled out his cellphone and glared down at it as he read the latest fashion article that had caught his interest.

As he played and taught Sophie, Sherlock wandered why Kurt was simply going along with him, instead of speaking up about his visible annoyance. After a moment of looking at Kurt’s scowl betrayed by the loose line of his shoulders outlined nicely by the biker jacket he wore, Sherlock concluded that Kurt probably hadn’t had this much excitement in his life since his mother died, which would explain why he hadn’t said anything yet.

Finally, after his hour with Sophie was nearly up, he began to pack away his violin.

“Wait, ‘Lockie,” Sophie said, her green eyes huge. “Can you play the Bird Song?”

“Blackbird?” Sherlock asked, a stab of anxiety making its way into his throat. “C’mon Soph, you know I can’t.”

“But Johnny loved it,” Sophie pleaded. “And Mamma says you should play the things people love, so you don’t forget them.” 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. If he didn’t want the seven-year-old to spill all his secrets, he’d have to play it.

“Here we go,” Sherlock muttered to himself as he assumed the correct position.

A few notes in, he was surprised to hear Kurt quietly singing the words. Sherlock wished he could stop the song to listen to the beautiful melody coming from the boy behind him, but knew if he did, then Kurt would stop singing. Sherlock had guessed he’d be a countertenor from how high-pitched Kurt’s resting voice was, but he didn’t think Kurt would be able to hit the notes quite that well. And based on the graceful way Kurt moved his hips when he walked and the way his tone carried a natural melody, Sherlock had known the kid could perform and sing. He’d just wanted to see how well. Music was his biggest weakness, after all.

By the time the lesson had ended, Sherlock had heard Kurt’s range, which was, admittedly, impressive. He wouldn’t mind writing a song for that lovely voice…that is, if Kurt ever let his guard down enough in front of him to sing without posturing.

As soon as the violin music stopped, Kurt quit singing, straightening himself up as his walls returned.

“Didn’t know you were musically inclined. Wouldn't have guessed it based on your awkward looking frame,” he said quietly.

Sherlock shrugged.

“I have many talents that you wouldn’t peg me for.”

“Oh,” Kurt said, standing and stretching, trying to shake out the numbness of his ass from sitting so long. “Is that an invitation?”

Sherlock finished helping Sophie pack her stuff up and watched her leave before replying, “in your dreams, Shortcake.”

Kurt scowled and crossed his arms.

“Did you bring me here to show me you could play the violin? You could’ve easily just said so. Or was it just so you could insult me?”

“No. I did actually bring you here for a reason,” Sherlock said as he turned back to Kurt and waved his hand at the doorway.

“Oh? And what would that be?” he asked, glancing towards the doorway.

“There’s a drum set that I’ve been working towards buying and this last lesson secures my acquisition of it. I need your help to load it up and take it down to the youth home on Barber Street.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? You expect me to do manual labor? For _you_?” Kurt asked, his anger at being led all around town finally showing. “And why the hell are you buying a bunch of kids a drum set? Also isn’t that where you live? Are you an orphan?”

Sherlock frowned.

“No, I live next door to the home. Well, I _say_ live next door… And it’s not like I have a lot of people lining up at the door to help me,” he said, walking closer to Kurt, who puffed out his chest.

Kurt’s eyes looked green in the low light of the practice room, and they burned with a challenge. Sherlock smiled. When he was standing close enough to touch Kurt, he leaned down, his exhale of breath ghosting across the soft skin of Kurt’s neck, ruffling his chestnut hair and causing gooseflesh to appear. Sherlock realized it was almost intoxicating having that much effect on someone else.

Kurt shuddered at the look on Sherlock’s face and his voice cracked when he said, “Alright then, I’ll help you. But you better make it fuckin’ worth it.”

 “Don’t worry. If you’re a good boy,” he whispered into Kurt’s ear, his voice dropping lower than its usual deep purr. “I’ll make it _well_ worth your while.” Sherlock was so close, that his lips brushed against the side of Kurt’s head, not quite on his cheek, yet not close enough to touch his earlobe.

“Don’t fuckin’ patronize me,” Kurt warned as he glared at Sherlock and pushed him away roughly, “come on.”

Sherlock let Kurt walk out of the room first, finding it best to let Kurt cool off. He was much quicker to anger than John had been, and much less patient, and Sherlock found it almost thrilling to see such a startling difference and to have such potential for new data.  

Angelo met them by the cash register and directed Sherlock to the drum set that he’d already broken down. They loaded Sherlock’s car in silence, and when they were done, Sherlock turned to Kurt.

“Angelo said you can have anything, on the house. Go ahead and pick something out. I just have some last-minute business with him to work out,” Sherlock said, pointing back at the store.

When Kurt left, although not without a fair amount of glaring as he shoulder checked Sherlock in annoyance, Sherlock turned to Angelo.

“Are you alright Sherlock?” Angelo asked, watching as Kurt walked back into the store, grumbling to himself on the way. Sherlock wasn’t one to give up the promise of new strings for his bow to some random person who didn’t seem to like him.

“Everything’s perfectly alright Angelo. I just didn’t want him to overhear this. I wanted to let you know that Billy never made it to the drop point last night,” Sherlock answered, his posture switching from petulant child to serious adult in an instant. Angelo hated that Sherlock was only seventeen, yet he had the hardened look of someone well within their forties.

“That could mean anything, Sherlock.”

“Yes. It could also mean he was picked up by the cops,” Sherlock answered, rolling his eyes. “You know what we have to do.”

“Alright, just, please be careful. I know you don’t believe it, but you’re the closest thing I have to a son,” Angelo said, before wrapping Sherlock in another hug. Sherlock didn’t return it, but he was touched, nonetheless.

“I always am, Angelo. Now, if you excuse me, I have a self-professed bad boy to go deal with,” Sherlock said, before disappearing into the store to find Kurt.

“What’s your goddamned damage?” Kurt asked as Sherlock approached him, not bothering to pretend to look interested in the records, though Sherlock could tell there were some he’d been considering before Sherlock had walked back in. “You've practically taken me hostage, now you’re doing shady back-alley deals, and I desperately need a cigarette. I'm leaving.”

Kurt stormed past him.

Without thinking, which was a first for Sherlock, he caught Kurt by the arm and forcibly turned him around. Sherlock released him when he saw the glare Kurt shot him.

“I know you’ve only known me for a few days, and barely at that, but there isn’t anyone else that can help me, and I’m running out of time to get back to my house,” Sherlock said almost desperately. “I swear, if it’s what you want, I’ll take you back to McKinley and never, ever, talk to you again. But I have to get that drum set delivered to the home. Those kids go without a lot in their lives, but to go without music is like taking away the basic human right to joy.”

Kurt yanked his arm out of Sherlock’s grasp his glare intensifying to the point that Sherlock was sure he’d be a melted puddle of blood and bone if Kurt’s looks had any real power.

Sherlock sighed.

“I told you I’d make it worth your while, and I meant it. I keep my promises. So, after this, your reward is me. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. If you want me to leave you alone. Fine. If it’s being your own personal slave for a few days. Fine. I can score you pretty much anything: drugs, booze, rare books, guys, you name it and I can get it. But please help me first.”

“Fine, whatever. Chill out and I'll help you,” Kurt relented. He agreed that children should never be without music, which could bring joy to kids who had no hope left. He remembered days spent at a piano, his mother teaching him how to play and read music after coming home from being bullied. Those were some of his happiest memories of some of his worst days.

He let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his hair, messing up the perfectly styled coif he’d put his hair in that morning.

“I’m not interested in slavery and I have everything I want,” he emphasized, looking up at Sherlock. Then he forced a smirk. “Plus, I’m not getting rid of the person who promised to help me let off steam. So, I’ll definitely think of some ways for you to pay me back”

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, his eyes scanning Kurt’s body from his perfectly mussed coif with the fading blue highlights, to his bulky boots. He looked especially charming today in his leather jacket, white t-shirt, and faded jeans that clung to the curve of his thighs nicely. But Sherlock’s attention was caught by the hoop lip piercing Kurt kept rolling in and out of his mouth, an unconscious tick.

Sherlock blushed when Kurt winked and made it clear he was returned the favor by exaggerating the way he checked Sherlock out.  

Rather abruptly, Sherlock grabbed a few albums from the shelf behind Kurt and headed out of the store without a word. Kurt rolled his eyes and shook his head. It looked like nothing was going to be easy between them.

Kurt followed after Sherlock but was sure to do it at a slow pace, just to get back at him for leaving so suddenly.

When they were both buckled, Sherlock tossed the albums into Kurt’s lap.

Sherlock had an indecipherable look on his face when Kurt looked at him in shock.

“I told you to get what you wanted,” Sherlock said, refusing to meek Kurt’s gaze. He didn’t know why he suddenly felt like everything was closing in on him, too tight, but he didn’t want Kurt to see how weird his mood had become. “You’re working for it by helping me out, anyway.”

The rest of the ten-minute drive was silent. Well. It was quiet until they parked in front of a large brick building.

As soon as the roaring engine was silenced, several kids ranging from fourteen to seven ran out of the front doors and down the steps.

“Sherlock! You’re back!” the kids shouted in differing variations.

“Ignore them,” Sherlock said as he unloaded the drum set onto the curb.

“Why?” Kurt asked, his hackles rising at the idea that Sherlock thought could boss him around.

“Because they’ll talk your ears off, without letting you get a word in edgewise, given half the chance,” Sherlock said as he began lugging the parts into the building. “This is just going right inside, I’ll lead you around back, straight to the rec area.”

“Fine,” Kurt huffed as he grabbed a load and followed Sherlock.

The kids kept up a running commentary as they worked, which both boys ignored. By the time, they were done connecting the pieces of the drum, a boy around Sherlock and Kurt’s age entered the rec-room, a child around three on his hip.

“It’s good to see you, Sherlock,” the boy greeted, setting the child down at a small plastic table with crayons and half scribbled papers strewn about it.

“Victor,” Sherlock said stiffly. He nodded towards the drums. “I thought some of the kids might need a bit of cheering up after the whole Jefferson Hope debacle.”

“Yeah, they did. Thanks,” Victor said, his brown eyes warm as his curly blonde hair fell into his face. He rested a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, a familiar gesture that spoke of years of history. Kurt watched the interaction with narrowed eyes, interested in Sherlock’s expanded world, outside of who he was at school. “Are you coming back?”

“No. I just wanted to drop these off. I actually have to leave soon—”

A loud shout, followed by the sound of breaking glass, reached them from where it originated outside.

Sherlock paled, making his already ivory skin look almost sickly, as he rushed to the exit. Kurt followed in confusion as all the kids that had been wandering around scattered. Some ran into the building to escape what was happening outside and some ran down the street.

“The hell?” Kurt asked as he joined Sherlock outside.

That was when he registered the burly man holding a metal baseball bat in his hands, the back window of Sherlock’s car completely smashed up.

“Kurt,” Sherlock said, his voice high with panic, “I need you to listen to me. Get in my car and drive straight away. Do it now.”

Sherlock didn’t have time to do anything but shove Kurt in the direction of the front of the car, as the man approached Sherlock.

Kurt cursed quietly when Sherlock pushed him, his boot catching on a crack in the ground and making him trip.

With his panic rising and flashes of a night he’d tried to forget pulsing in the back of his head, he slid into the front seat and buckled his seat belt. He glanced at Sherlock wearily from the rearview mirror, before starting the car with the keys Sherlock hadn’t bothered taking out.

Sherlock caught his eyes in the mirror and gave him a grim nod.

So, he stomped on the gas pedal and sped off. He didn’t feel good about leaving Sherlock behind, especially since he knew he was in trouble, but he didn’t really know what else to do.

Sherlock took a moment to be grateful that the stubborn boy had decided to follow his directions, before his attention was pulled back to the present.

“You fucking bastard! I thought I told you never to come back here,” Cull Smith shouted as he approached Sherlock, punching him in the face without hesitation. Sherlock’s body moved with the punch, absorbing the impact. But then Cull swung his metal bat down on Sherlock’s shoulder. He cried out in pain and kicked Cull’s legs wrestling the bat out of his hands.

“And I thought they’d thrown you behind bars,” Sherlock spat, dodging Cull’s next punch and landing one of his own.

“You fuckin’ fag. You’ve quite the nerve!”

Cull feigned right and caught Sherlock in the stomach. Hard.

Sherlock went down to his knees in pain.

“I thought you liked my nerve. You didn’t use to complain. In fact, I remember a time when you encouraged it.”

Sherlock’s reply sent Cull into a stream of curses that Sherlock didn’t try to understand as he was too busy ducking under the large man and rolling to the side. Sherlock spit a glob of blood onto the pavement, his split lip stinging, and leaped out of the way of a steel-toed boot just in time before it landed on his ribs.

Sherlock knew better than to expect Victor or any of the others to help. They’d all learned the hard way that there was no helping Sherlock when Cull was in a murderous mood. There was only ever cleaning the cuts and holding ice to the bruises.

Sherlock registered the metal trash can lid that sat off the side of the curb. He grabbed it and brought the lid down on Cull’s head. But he wasn’t anticipating that the man would duck and push back, causing Sherlock to fall to the unforgiving pavement.

Cull was on top of him then, reigning fist after fist down upon him, anywhere there was an opening. Knowing there was no winning now, Sherlock held as still as possible, covered his head with his arms, and waited for the man to get tired, so that he could go lick his wounds in peace.

He heard someone with a high-pitched voice shout, “Get off of him!” before everything became fuzzy and disjointed.

Kurt jumped off his motorcycle and ran up to the man who was beating the shit out of Sherlock. He’d already been at school by the time he’d realized that he couldn’t leave the situation alone. He didn’t feel good about leaving Sherlock behind, especially since he knew he was in trouble, so he’d decided to go back. But he wasn’t familiar with Sherlock’s car. He knew he’d be faster on his motorcycle.

It was the surprise that someone else was there, more than his strength, that knocked Cull back. Kurt gripped the man’s shirt, before pulling his fist back and sending a bone-crunching punch to his nose with all the anger he’d built up since his mom died. Kurt smirked when Cull cried out in pain and fell sideways, gripping his bloody nose.

“My fuckin’ nose!” Cull shouted, glaring Kurt down. “You broke my fuckin’ nose.”

“Serves you right, asshole,” Kurt replied as he pulled Sherlock his feet. Kurt took the time to grab the metal bat and slam it down on one of the man’s knees so he couldn’t follow them. Then Kurt led Sherlock away. Sherlock stumbled with Kurt to his motorcycle, shaking his head to clear it of the cotton it seemed to be wrapped in.

“What?” he asked as Kurt tossed his only helmet to Sherlock.

“Fuck, man, you gotta _hurry_ ,” Kurt said as shoved the helmet onto Sherlock’s head, realizing he was likely concussed. “C’mon!”

He mounted his bike and tried his best to help Sherlock do the same as quickly as possible. When Sherlock was behind him, his warm chest pressed to Kurt’s back, Kurt sped off with his house the only destination in mind.

Four minutes later, he parked his bike in front of a two-story, white house with blue shutters and a black roof. The yard was well landscaped and there was a driveway leading to a garage. Overall, Kurt's home was average, but well loved.

“What the fuck was that, Holmes?!” Kurt asked as he turned to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled the helmet off his head, spitting a wad of blood into the bushes lining the edge of Kurt's lawn. Sherlock fumbled as he got off the motorcycle and shrugged. He struggled as he pulled out his cell phone so he could text Victor.

**Sent. 6:01 p.m.**

Take the kids to that movie place on German St. I’ll pay you back for the tickets. Cull needs to calm down.

And then, after it took an embarrassing amount of time for him to think about it, he sent Victor another text.

“No seriously, what the fuck?” Kurt said as he got off the bike.

**Sent. 6:04 p.m.**

If you have to, Angelo will take everyone in for the night.          

**Sent. 6:05 p.m.**

Billy’s missing.

Then he looked up into Kurt's expectant gaze.

Sighing, Sherlock leaned against the black bike and ran a hand through his tousled curls, wincing when his hand hit a sore spot.

“I guess I owe you an explanation,” Sherlock said.

“Ya fuckin’ think?” Kurt growled.

Sherlock looked down at his converse covered feet and Kurt’s heart gave an unexpected twinge of regret at his tone.

He groaned.

“You’re seriously makin’ this hard,” he said as he grabbed Sherlock's hand and lead him inside the house, grateful his father would still be working at the auto shop.

“Sit down,” Kurt ordered, showing Sherlock to the couch in his living room.

He left but quickly returned with a first-aid kit. He kneeled in front of where Sherlock sat on the couch.

“Lean forward, giant,” he murmured, the insult sounding more like friendly teasing than anything else at this point. Sherlock did and Kurt began to examine the bump on the back of Sherlock’s head. “Now explain.”

“You were right. I did live at the group home...but then I was adopted. The man you pulled off me oversees the home, and, until recently, he'd been in jail on charges of possession and assault. I help out there, when I can. Give them money and stuff. But I forgot to check Cull’s release date. I mean, I knew it would be sometime this month, but I've been busy...so,” Sherlock said as Kurt moved to Sherlock’s face, placing a butterfly bandage across a scrape over Sherlock’s eyebrow. “Anyway, thanks for helping. So, what would you like from me?”

“What do I want?” Kurt asked, momentarily forgetting their deal from earlier, since he was focused on cleaning Sherlock’s wounds. “Right. Uh. Is now really the best time to talk about that?”

Sherlock only shrugged.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Kurt decided.

“Okay,” Sherlock said as Kurt leaned up to brush some of his hair away from the cut on his eyebrow.

Sherlock felt the urge to lean in close to Kurt as his tongue slid between his lips in concentration while he applied another butterfly band-aid. Sherlock wanted to pull that pink tongue between his own lips. For the first time in his life, Sherlock was having feelings of a sexual nature for someone else, and it unnerved him. Acting flirty was one thing, but it scared him how much he meant it when he was being flirty with Kurt.

To break the tension that had been created between them, Sherlock looked at his watch.

Shit. He needed to be home like an hour ago. He shot up from his position on the couch.

“I-I have to go. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

He was out of the door and running down the street before Kurt could say anything to stop him.

“Oh,” Kurt said as he leaned back on his knees, feeling bereft at the sudden absence.

It didn’t take long for Kurt’s emotions to flood into him.

He stood and threw away the trash, hurt that Sherlock hadn’t even left a phone number for Kurt to check in on him. He felt drawn to the strange boy with the many mysteries that surrounded him. But Kurt was also a natural caretaker, and he felt like it was his job to make sure Sherlock was okay, since he’d been there when everything had happened. He was also more inclined to want to take care of Sherlock because he was sure Sherlock wasn’t the kind of person to be trusted to take care of himself.

Moreover, he was just…confused.

His day had been derailed so easily by one person. Plus, he didn’t understand what was going on with Sherlock or why Sherlock seemed to just shut down whenever they were starting to get along like actual friends.

Kurt once again got the feeling that nothing was ever going to be easy when it came to Sherlock, and he wasn’t sure what that meant for him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains graphic depictions of Non-Con/Rape

When Sherlock walked into his house an hour after he’d left Kurt, he knew something was off. The lamp in the living room was on, which was unusual because Sherlock rarely turned the lights on in the house, afraid that his father would beat him or make him do…other things, to teach him a lesson about running up the electricity bill.

Apprehensive and the hairs on his arm standing on end, Sherlock toed his converses off. He then made sure to be as quiet as he could when he headed towards the stairs, trying to make it to his room before his father found out he’d been gone.

“Where’ve you been?” asked a quiet voice from the open doorway of the living room.

Sherlock paused. Cringed. He’d wanted to avoid this confrontation as much as possible, but it didn’t seem like luck was on his side today. He changed direction and walked into the living room, spotting his father leaning against the wall.

If someone could look like the definition of an evil villain, it would be Charles Augustus Magnusson. His features were sharp and slender, as if his skull was ready to burst out of his skin at any second; pale as death. He was tall, taller than Sherlock who was already a good six feet and still growing, and he was boney, his fingers looking as though his skin and muscle hadn’t had enough to cover the proximal phalanges all the way to the distal phalanges. But it was the combination of his uncomfortably soft voice, so assured he’d always get what he wanted, and his dead eyes that sold the whole ensemble. 

He was like a shark. The personification of death.

When he walked into a room with his slow, confident swagger, even the hardest of men shuddered. This is what made him such a successful and ruthless lawyer, because no one ever wanted on his bad side. Magnusson had enough dirt on enough people in government, that he could bring the whole thing crashing down with a snap of his fingers.

For his part, Sherlock just squared his jaw and stared his father down.

“I was jumped in the parking lot at school, got knocked out,” Sherlock said, the lie flowing effortlessly off his tongue.

“You should’ve been more careful,” the man who called himself Sherlock’s legal guardian replied. His thin lips smiled in a way that sent the pit of Sherlock’s stomach roiling.

“They came out of nowhere,” Sherlock defended, he crossed his arms over his chest, as if that could stop what was about to happen. “I couldn’t avoid it.”

“You know your punishment, Sherlock,” his father said, tone soft enough that if Sherlock didn’t know any better, he’d mistake it as a suggestion. Sherlock did know better though. “Nothing will change that. You broke the rules and there must be consequences, or we’re just like the rest of our barbaric society.”

His father sat in the armchair they kept closest to the fireplace, his legs splayed in open invitation.

With a great reluctance that could be heard in his sigh, Sherlock followed.

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock said as he stepped between his father’s legs.

“On your knees,” said his father.

Sherlock dropped to his knees, shuffling between the man’s legs.

He looked up, unsure what his father wanted him to do tonight. It wasn’t always a quick blowjob. Sometimes Magnusson liked to fuck his throat until Sherlock was crying with the pain and the lack of oxygen. Sometimes Magnusson liked to watch Sherlock jerk off, then made Sherlock jerk him off so he could cum over Sherlock’s face. There was no limit to his “father’s” depravity.

“Well, get on with it,” his father said. Sherlock flinched at the irritated tone, a tone that never boded well for him. “The usual will be just fine.”

Sherlock proceeded to unbutton the man’s pants and tried to get him off as fast as he could with his mouth. Part of Sherlock’s brain was focused on the act he was committing, an act that he wished he didn’t have to perform in order to gain the barest necessities to live, but the majority of his mind wondered what Kurt was doing. Maybe he was doing homework. Or singing along to an awful pop song. Maybe he’d be doing his moisturizing routine—skin as soft as his, was bound to be purposeful.

A few minutes into the blowjob, Sherlock apparently wasn’t doing good enough, because Magnusson forced Sherlock’s head down so he could fuck in and out of Sherlock’s mouth. He then gripped Sherlock’s neck tight, cutting off the small amount of air Sherlock was able to get when his father pulled out.

On one level he could feel himself struggling to gasp in air that wouldn’t come, his fingers digging into the leather arms of the chair to have something to focus on through the pain in his lungs and the tears in his eyes. But everything was filtered through murky water so that Sherlock wasn’t attached to any of it, not his body or the awful emotions, or the sensory input his body was going through to let him know that his dick started to perk up at the lack of oxygen.

When he felt himself hardening while his father used him as a glorified sex toy, Sherlock recognized that as the moment his consciousness splintered off to its mind palace.

Mentally Sherlock walked the winding stairs up to the topmost spire, which contained two doors. The first door on the left of the small hallway was painted mint green, distressed from years of use. It was also chained down and locked with several different combination locks. The gold embroidered plaque on the wall beside the green door read “Watson.”

The other door sat closer to the end of the corridor, on the right. It was made of frosted glass, and the light shining out from the door was bright and warm and welcoming in a way that Sherlock hadn’t felt in such a long time. Sherlock took hold of the silver handle and pushed the door open.

The room was painted white and it was rather bare, save for the large bay windows that took up an entire wall, letting in huge swaths of light. On a bench seat next to the window, sat Kurt, wearing a distressed black t-shirt that had so many holes in it, it seemed like one gentle tug might make it disintegrate. His legs were clad in light jeans, while his feet were in those stupid combat boots that Kurt refused to tie all the way. He sat looking out the windows, his knees pulled to his chest, a gentle smile on his face. He brought a cigarette to his lips as something out the window made him laugh, which sounded the way glass does when it’s tossed at a wooden floor, tinkling and sharp and short.

Mindpalace!Kurt was a perfect replica of how Sherlock had seen Kurt sitting on the second day of school. He’d been leaning against the tree where they’d met as he watched a mom teach her daughter how to toss a football.

Mindpalace!Kurt turned his head when he heard Sherlock enter the room. He raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow, the stud in it emphasizing the arch.

“That bad?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock said as he sat next to Mindpalace!Kurt.

“This’ll help,” Mindpalace!Kurt said, offering him his cigarette.

“I thought you wanted me to get my own,” Sherlock said, taking the offered stick and sucking in a lungful of smoke, holding it as long as he could.

Mindpalace!Kurt shrugged as he laid his head on this knees, watching Sherlock through his long lashes.

“Desperate times, right?”

“Right,” Sherlock confirmed, the smoke escaping his mouth as he spoke, surrounding them in a wispy haze.

In the comfort of his own mind, Sherlock let himself lean back against Kurt’s legs, soaking up the imagined warmth. Mindpalace!Kurt snaked his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed the side of his head.

“You’ll get through this.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, taking another drag of the cigarette, “doesn’t make it any less painful.”

When Magnusson came, he held Sherlocks head down, forcing Sherlock to choke on his salty cum and driving Sherlock out of his mind palace. Sherlock had barely enough time to control his gag reflex and swallow, knowing Magnusson would make him regret it, if he didn’t.

He pulled off cleanly, hoping all his father had wanted from him tonight was a rough blowjob. But Sherlock’s hope was dashed when his father next spoke.

“Be ready for me by the time I get up to the room. If not, you know what will happen.”

Sighing Sherlock got to his feet and went upstairs to his father’s room, where he immediately stripped out of his button-up and jeans, folding them and leaving them on the desk off to the side. His movements were fluid, speaking of years of practice. He started to stretch himself open as fast as he could in the seven minutes he had before Magnusson was pressing inside of him. It was rough and hard, and when Sherlock next stood, his lower back burned all the way down to his leaking hole. Thankfully Magnusson let him go as soon as he was finished.

Woodenly, Sherlock scooped up his clothes and headed to his own room, which was barren save for the alarm clock and lamp on the nightstand. It looked more like a hotel room than what was supposed to be a teenager’s safe haven. He dumped his clothes on the bed and headed straight for his en suite. When he showered that night, the water was scalding, and he stood under the waterfall for long enough that his pale skin was blistered red. By the time he fell into his bed, he was asleep.

 

The next day it was hard to walk without a limp, but he did. Gritting his teeth and holding in the pain. At least it let him know he was still alive. When Kurt showed up at his locker, Sherlock tried to restrain his grimace. Kurt looked at him the way Magnusson had looked at him last night, predatory. It was unnerving.

“Hey, Giant. I know what I want, so skip class with me so you can pay me back,” Kurt said, his voice husky as if he’d just finished a cigarette.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said, stuffing his books into his locker and then following Kurt out the school to the tree. After all, Sherlock Holmes kept his promises, even when he didn’t want to.

Kurt walked beside Sherlock, noticing the slight limp to the taller boy’s gait. He hadn’t been limping when he’d left Kurt’s house, but maybe he’d gotten hurt afterword? Had he gone back to fight that Cull guy? But he’d been adamant about getting home at a certain time.

 Kurt winced, hoping that his sinking suspicion about Sherlock’s home life wasn’t accurate at all.

Once they got to the tree, which was a really nice place away from the bullying jocks and the weird looks from other students and which was quickly becoming one of Kurt’s favorite places at school, Kurt took a deep breath to prepare himself for what he was about to ask of Sherlock.

He’d done a lot of thinking after Sherlock had left his house. He’d known Sherlock had been watching him the last few days, knew that Sherlock had asked him for help with the drums when he could’ve asked literally anyone else, knew that Sherlock kept him company when he seemed to hate anyone else’s, and knew that Sherlock liked the way he looked. The problem was, Sherlock was so willing to flirt with him, but kept insisting he wasn’t gay, and Kurt didn’t really know how to take that. Yes, there were more sexualities than straight and gay, but Sherlock hadn’t explicitly said he was straight either.

Kurt knew, in an abstract sort of way, that he was good looking. He didn’t waste hours at night on a moisturizing routine for nothing. He didn’t spend more money than he cared to admit keeping his eyebrows plucked and his nails manicured and his hair styled just for the sake of it. He always pulled focus in a room because of his well-groomed appearance. But the way Sherlock looked at him was more than an admission that Kurt was a good-looking person. Sherlock looked at him like he was interesting, like he wanted to burrow into his skin just to see how Kurt’s muscles worked. And that had to mean something.

But Kurt didn't want to force him to do anything. He didn't want to assume that Sherlock was gay…but he couldn't deny his attraction to Sherlock either. The fact that he was willing to wade into the many psychological issues he could feel bubbling under the surface of Sherlock’s cool façade, meant that it was more than a passing thing. Sherlock was complicated, an asshole, and could read everything about him in one glance, yes, but just by taking the drums to the orphans, he’d shown there was more to him. Kurt wanted to get to know that side. It was more than some passing fancy, because Kurt could see himself being friends with Sherlock.

And wasn’t that a slap to the face? It had taken Sherlock a week to knock down the walls that his own father was just now passing through.

Having to watch his mom die a slow, miserable death had left its own kind of mark. Her suffering was unstoppable, and the only way Kurt had managed to survive it was by hurting himself. Scars from the blade that had once given him relief adorned his thighs, hips, and wrists, which is why he normally wore clothes that covered most of his skin. Cutting himself had been Kurt's only escape from the pain of his mother’s passing and the relentless bullying he’d endured for daring to be himself, until he met Blaine.

Before Kurt had decided on the bad-boy persona that he wrapped like armor around his heart at McKinley, he’d been a choir nerd who’d loved fashion, wearing things most people only saw on the runway. He’d loved sewing and baking and planning parties and having sleepovers and tea parties with his friends. That was the person he’d been when he’d fallen in love with Blaine Anderson at Dalton Academy, the second school he’d attended. Blaine had been everything Kurt hadn’t been, he was confident and sexy and butch, liking sports and boxing and getting into trouble. At first, Kurt had gotten attached because Blaine was willing to show Kurt the ropes at school and being a Warbler, the school’s choir, as well as teach him things about gay culture. But they’d quickly fallen for one another because Kurt could match Blaine’s mischief with his wit of his own, and Blaine could take Kurt’s mind off his mom. They’d balanced each other out.

But several months before Kurt’s sophomore year ended, nearly nine months after his mom died, he and Blaine had attended a Sadie's Hawkins dance for Valentine’s day. They’d been the only kids out as gay at school, and even though Dalton had a zero-tolerance policy, they were still at a school in rural Ohio. While they were waiting for Burt to pick them up, a group of people jumped them, beating both kids within inches of their lives. Kurt had been in the hospital for a week with a medically induced coma having undergone several surgeries to repair his fractured shoulder, collarbone, two broken ribs, and a broken wrist. But Blaine, who’d been kicked in the head multiple times, trying to use his knowledge of boxing to defend Kurt, had ended up in a coma. Now, nearly eight months later, he still hadn’t woken up.

It wasn’t that Kurt blamed his dad, though if Burt hadn’t stopped to help a woman with her car troubles that night, those kids wouldn’t have had an opportunity to jump Kurt or Blaine. The problem was, after Burt had gone through his heart attack only a month after Kurt had gotten out of the hospital (later they’d found out that the stress of Kurt’s injuries along with the stress of keeping Hummel Tires & Lube open and bad eating habits had been the culprit) and Kurt had purposefully gotten himself expelled so he could be home to take care of his father, Burt hadn’t looked at Kurt the same. As if all the fights had been Kurt’s choice. As if Kurt was breaking his heart for things he couldn’t control.

The fact that in under a week this crazy, weird kid with what seemed like Bi-polar disorder had slipped in, disarming all the issues Kurt had was insane. And Kurt _wanted_ to be friends with him, which was even more insane. But he could see some of the pain in Sherlock’s colorless eyes, and he’d found a kindred, jaded spirit in the genius.

Kurt shook his head to clear his thoughts. He pulled out a blueberry lollipop from his back pocket and popped it into his mouth, in order to give his hands something to do.

“Okay, so. You can say no, Giant, but I want…I want you to kiss me,” Kurt said as he sucked on the lollipop. He avoided looking at Sherlock and focused on the taller boy’s curly hair, afraid he’d see rejection and disgust on Sherlock’s face. “Like I said, you can say no, and I can think of something else. I just—you seemed like you would like—”

Sherlock sighed in relief, happy he wasn’t required to do anything more risqué. He swallowed the panic that rose in the back of his throat at having never actually kissed someone before, deciding that getting it over with was the best option. He grabbed Kurt by the lapels of his leather jacket and Kurt had just enough time to yank his lollipop out of his mouth, before Sherlock pulled him in, sliding his lips over Kurt’s.

After a moment of surprise, Kurt responded by sliding his empty hand into Sherlock’s soft black hair and angling his face to the side for better access to his lips.

Sherlock could tell Kurt was teaching him how to kiss by taking the lead, but it wasn’t awkward, half because Kurt was patient and half because Sherlock was a quick learner. The metal texture of Kurt’s lip ring was startling against Kurt’s warm lips. Kurt’s lips themselves were plush and soft and invited Sherlock in for more so easily that Sherlock got lost in the wet sliding sensation and the rain scent of Kurt’s cologne.

It took several moments for either boy to finally pull away, forced apart by their mutual need for air.

Kurt leaned back, popping his lollipop back into his mouth with a small grin.

“Oh—kay,” he murmured, at a loss of words for the first time since he’d met Sherlock. “Thank you?”

Kurt was shocked speechless when Sherlock only nodded and spun away head to class.

Sherlock was confused.

He’d expected to feel violated like he usually did when he was touched by another human being. He’d expected to feel numb and indifferent, forced into his mind palace to escape the awfulness of the real world. He’d expected to feel angry that Kurt could use his body for his own purposes, just like everyone else had.

Instead, he’d wanted more. In that moment, with his lips and tongue moving against Kurt’s, he’d wanted everything.

Wanted to shove Kurt against the tree, and taste…everywhere—from the skin behind his ear to the soft flesh of his inner thigh, to the area between his ankle and leg.

Wanted to know what sounds Kurt made when he climaxed. Would they be unpleasant grunts, like his father? With his voice, probably not. His groans would be high and breathy, probably. Sherlock wanted to know what Kurt’s voice sounded like screaming his name.

Shaking his head, he began to run, passing his classroom and running out the doors of the school.

What was he thinking? He didn’t want to violate Kurt the way he was violated almost every night.

But he did. God, he really did.

He wanted to ruin Kurt. Reduce him to broken sounds and needy whimpers.

But that was so, so wrong. On so many levels. He was a monster for being so turned on with those images. What the hell was even wrong with him?

When he reached his car, he got in, turned the ignition over, and squealed tires as he raced out of the parking lot.

He needed something that would keep him from thinking. That would silence his brain.

He needed something that would loosen up his tense shoulders—his muscles had been coiled tight since the day before.

And he needed something that would keep him from thinking about the pain in his ass.

In short, Sherlock Holmes was in need of a fix. So, he texted his father that he’d meet him at home. Sherlock spared half a moment to be guilty about breaking his promise to John, but in the next second his mind was busier fortifying for the fact that he’d have to participate in sex with Magnusson to get the drugs he craved.

Usually he didn’t ask for it, but there were some things his father was willing to give him if Sherlock offered sex. And heroine always made him forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if y'all see any mistakes. Also sorry if this is too short, I just wanted to get something posted.

**Author's Note:**

> My dearest lovelies, let me know if you saw a discrepancy with the third person omniscient. I want to give Kurt and Sherlock equal storytelling, but we all know that, while I love Kurt, my bae is Sherlock. 
> 
> Also, Sherlock is a bit OOC because I Americanized him, made him more down to earth, and made him love art more than science because reasons that will become apparent later (it's his form of escape--also I don't know how to science). Don't be too harsh.
> 
> I love and appreciate you all.


End file.
